Misplaced
by Jana Kay
Summary: Wesley has a dirty little secret.


TITLE: Misplaced  
AUTHOR: Jana Kay  
EMAIL: jana_kay17@yahoo.com.au  
DISCLAIMER: All characters named here belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the WB and 20th Century Fox. No profit being made, I'm just playing.  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: Up through to 'Shanshu' for A:tS   
SUMMARY: Wesley has a dirty, little secret.  
NOTES: These //....// indicate thoughts.  
  
*****  
  
Quote : Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which they never show to anybody.  
--Mark Twain  
  
*****  
  
It took all of Wesley's tired mind to be able to coordinate himself to lean over the desk and pick up his coat, his arms struggling feebly to fit in the holes as he concentrated on Cordelia's words, trying to look as though he were actually listening.  
  
It wasn't as though he didn't want to listen, no, because he did, but he was just so damnably *tired.* Everything seemed to be crashing down on him lately, and no matter what efforts he took to be able to successfully take it in stride, it just wasn't working this time. He could feel himself minute by minute being sucked deeper into a void of smothering sludge so dark, light wasn't even able to penetrate it.   
  
He winced as he moved the wrong way fixing his coat and another bruise heralded its presence. Damn explosions. Damn *this* explosion. The one that had taken Angel's home and office and had relegated them, for the time being at least, to Cordelia's apartment, which she was thankfully more than willing to share with them.   
  
It had been three weeks. Three weeks of gnawing and aching pain for him which he steadfastly ignored, and which in turn led the others to ignore too. Bitterness sank its teeth into him again at that thought, but of course it wasn't really their fault. They had asked after his health as was to be expected, and Cordelia had done her best to mother him in her own unique way, and they were on tenderhooks around him at first, not willing to let him out of their sight, but the more he brushed off the hurts, the more they did too.  
  
To be expected of course. If someone acts as though they're getting better, acts as though they're actually fine now, as their friend, you wouldn't expect them to be lying, and hence you'd believe them.  
  
He simply had no right to feel ice cold bitterness right now towards the two people he was closest to in this entire city, if not this Earth. But a life born and lived such as his, with parents //father// like his, it was impossible for the ingrained chippy attitude not to kick in again. Years, long years of laying awake at night as a young boy, then a young man, practicing the smile, faking the feelings, covering up wounds and sucking it up, sucking it *all* up, so he could get up the next morning and hold a stiff upper lip identical to his father's and not wince even the teeniest bit.  
  
He didn't want to be this way around them. He really didn't. He didn't want to hold the stiff upper lip around them. They were his friends. They were his family. They deserved better. They deserved honesty. They....deserved something he couldn't give them. Try as he might, the shroud of darkness in his mind that was his childhood wouldn't release him.   
  
He should probably walk right over to Cordelia's couch now, sit himself down, and mention quietly to them both that he didn't think he could get himself home tonight. They would understand, he knew they would. They would ask how he was feeling, bring him a cup of hot tea, possibly a blanket, maybe two, Cordelia would willingly let him spend the night, and Angel would not begrudge him the couch as he lay down on the floor to sleep.   
  
He probably should do that....but he wouldn't. He....couldn't.   
  
Instead he murmured goodbyes to them both, a quiet false smile on his face, his eyes stopping to rest on both his friends for a few moments to show his control before turning towards the door, his legs working beneath him through sheer force of will.  
  
He was proud of himself. He made it outside without so much as trembling once. But it was empty pride, because the moment the door closed firmly behind him, shivering wracked his form, and he could do no more than shamble half-heartedly down the corridor, as if he was no better than an old drunk going off to rest their legs in an alleyway somewhere.  
  
The gentle warmth of the evening hit him as he pushed open the door to Cordelia's building. It helped to ease the spasms seizing his muscles, but did nothing for the ache of pain that seemed to resonate in every limb, no matter if it had actually been injured or not.   
  
Past caring, he didn't even bother to reach a hand into his pocket to curl safely around a stake. If something of the fanged persuasion decided to attack him tonight, so be it. He'd never even be able to fight it in his condition at the moment anyway, let alone stake it.  
  
A quiet voice was suddenly dredged up in his memory at that thought.   
  
//Who are you to give up, boy? You don't even have the spine to fight, you have the spine to give up?//   
  
And so many years, so many years of not understanding what that meant. But he did now. And it was as true then as it was now.   
  
Indigo shadows danced across the corners of his vision, in the cracks in the pavement as he carefully stepped over them, matching the shade of the night sky. With every move he made, his tired body seemed to protest a little more. The fat moon shining down on him as he shuffled down the empty sidewalks did nothing to brighten his mood.  
  
Time seemed to pass without him noticing when he suddenly found himself standing outside the door of his little apartment. Hands fumbled in pockets to find keys, and then hands couldn't fit the key into the rusty lock because they were shaking too much.   
  
Finally, finally the door opened.   
  
Wesley pushed the door closed with one feeble hand as he paused for a moment in the little sitting room. He needed to catch his breath. He used the moment of stillness to cast his eye over the room, taking in the small mass of items he'd managed to accumulate in his time here in LA. Not much, but perhaps enough.  
  
Well, only time would tell.  
  
Moving again, forcing his legs to cooperate as he pushed them on ahead, he made his way slowly, stooped over like an old man, to the cupboard beneath the glassware in the tiny kitchenette. There were no cups, no plates, no nothing in the sink. Anything that had been used had been carefully washed and put away.  
  
//You can never do a right thing in your life, can you?//  
  
He couldn't afford to make mess.  
  
Pulling open the cupboard, he took out the brand new bottle of scotch, still wrapped in the paper bag he'd bought it in. Nothing fancy of course, because who was Wesley Wyndham-Price to be fancy? It was simply the cheap stuff, bought to knock you out while you were alone, not to relax you while in the company of friends.  
  
Take it out of the bag, throw the bag in the trash, unscrew the cap, take a long drink.  
  
Aaaaaahhhhhhhh....  
  
//Not a single thing right//  
  
And look at him. He couldn't even wait to get to his easy chair in the sitting room, pour it into a glass, at least try and pretend that this was just another normal evening for him.   
  
But no.   
  
He had to lean against the sink, one white hand gripping the edge as he let his weight rest against it, another white hand wrapped tight around the bottle as though letting it go could somehow invite death.  
  
Well, maybe it did.  
  
Well over half the bottle was gone before he finally staggered to the chair, falling into it gracelessly as some of the amber liquid sloshed out of the bottle and onto his clothes. A half drunken laugh escaped him as he stared at the liquid on his light cream pants, then raised his gaze and saw the other bottles, the same to what he was holding now, empty of every drop and lined up neatly beneath the window sill.   
  
Count how many there are....  
  
No, it made Wesley too tired. There were too many.   
  
A wisp of a smile came to his face as he contemplated the bottle in his hand. His dirty little secret, this amber liquid. What would the others think? What would they think if they knew what he was doing right now, what he had been doing for what seemed like so long now, but probably wasn't. He wasn't an alcoholic, but he knew this was something similar.   
  
Something not quite right.   
  
An obsession, a need, a secret....  
  
A chuckle burst from his lips before his mind even comprehended it. And his poor pride....why did it have to sound like such a sad sob?  
  
Yes. A dirty little secret.  
  
They had no idea of course. Cordelia and Angel. They had no idea what it was he did whenever he told them he had to take an early night, or he was just going to take this book home, or that he had something else to do that could in no way involve either of the two.   
  
They held such faith in him. They believed in him at every turn. The loyal, ever present, always careful, straight laced, fumbling yet endearing, wise British man that cared for them both and would try within all his power to never let danger touch them.   
  
Such faith. Such belief. In *him*....  
  
Wesley Wyndham-Price.   
  
It seemed misplaced somehow. Their faith in him seemed....misplaced.   
  
Why?  
  
His tired mind didn't want to work. His thoughts were starting to become sluggish, gently melting together into a relaxing pile of mush. His eyelids sagged, wire-rimmed glasses slipping partially down his nose.   
  
Why did it seem misplaced? He was after all, a Watcher. It was something he'd trained his whole life for. It was perfectly in his capacity to research and decipher ancient texts, to unravel prophecies and impart knowledge unto others.   
  
He was also capable, if he so chose, of looking after a Slayer. The one girl in all the world.... And that's a great responsibility, not to mention a great honour.   
  
He mentally thanked the amber liquid sloshing lazily in the bottle for letting him forget, at least for the moment, what a massive cock up that was. He tilted his head to it to acknowledge its ability to make the voices unable, for the moment at least, to rub his face in it again as they had been doing for well over a year now.   
  
//Not a single thing right//   
  
He shifted slightly in the seat, raised the bottle to his lips, gulped down the liquid and ignored the fiery burn, ignored the small dribble of amber that he missed that proceeded to slide down his chin and drip onto his collar slowly, like a leaky tap.  
  
//Wesley, you're nothing. You were born a nothing, and you'll die a nothing, and throughout the rest of the time that you're alive, you'll only be pretending//   
  
//....You're lying//  
  
//I'm your father, Wesley. I know you. And I wish I were lying....but that would be pretending too//  
  
Make that ex-Watcher.   
  
Misplaced why? The question nagged at him, floating throughout his alcohol addled brain. Why did he have this itchy feeling that it was wrong for them to trust him, to believe in him?  
  
Count the bottles, Wesley old boy. How many exactly in the last three weeks?   
  
2, 4, 6, 8, 12, 15....  
  
And then he was asleep, bottle left dangling dangerously between his twitching fingers, the question still floating unanswered in his brain.  
  
Misplaced.  
  
And he wonders why.  
  
  
End  



End file.
